Warning: suggestive themes.
You wake up before him—that’s the first mistake.
Lulling morning light tells you to bring the sheets closer, to sink in the cocoon of blankets and let your mind drift off again. The quiet hum of the refrigerator, the faint sounds of traffic during the early morning rush hour, his snoring muffled by the pillow; you could use them all to fall back asleep.
Wait. Your eyes snap open, and you’re sure that you freeze for a second, with your fingers nearly poking holes in the sheets. Snoring?
The bed creaks as you turn. A drop of sweat skates along your skin. The serene twitter of 8 a.m. is kidnapped
Locking Hawks’ windows on a Thursday night isn’t how you expected to spend your evening, surely not alone, right? Your boyfriend, the ever good-natured and stand-up hero he is, would offer to help you so you can get back to fumbling around on your laptop and making the graph due tomorrow at a conference, wouldn’t he?
You should stop giving your denial the power to fill your head with these thoughts. They’ll make you more frustrated when you turn to see him on the bed, face propped up by his hand, and a shit-eating grin staining his lips. When you finish with the last lock (why are they so convoluted on these huge wind
The minute Hawks hears the voicemail you left—short, direct, normal, minus the unmistakable quiver in your voice—is the minute his feet hit the ground running. Sweltering heat blanketing the city doesn’t hold him back, doesn’t hold a candle for how he sprints, how he turns on a dime to make it to you in time. His shoes skid along the sidewalks; his headphones clap around his ears and muffle everything but his mind.
Hawks is used to the stares he gets. The wings protruding from his back are an easy target, after all, and his face is a magnet for buzzing reporters, craving the freshly new number two’s opinion on t
Soulmate!au where the words on your body are significant words your soulmate says to you.
A bright pink paper wristband coddles your wrist. The line you’re in trails the sidewalks from outside the concert venue—the concert venue with its doors closed even when you all should’ve been in there forty minutes ago with your screams reaching up from the back of your throat and blending with everyone else’s. The line is colorful with all the neon clothes around you, and the line is like an exclamation point to tacked on at the end of the city’s name, the city that snaps awake at night and crashes in the morning with a
This road is a narrow one whose stones are slightly uneven, just enough to angle your feet awkwardly. Bending behind the far-off horizon, the sun slinks away and leaves warm, muddled oranges and yawning yellows behind. The fading straps of your bag hang on your shoulders and hook themselves in. It’s not a problem, the temperature plummeting, or the road being an eerie sort of silence that’s struck you a few times too many, or the fact that the bag uncomfortably slumps on your back but isn’t too heavy, or, or, or when your eyes peered into his molten ones and you somehow knew that today was the last day.
Your teeth sink and
The sheets that dip into the grooves of his body aren’t silk, but the way they slip and slink over him makes them look like the softest sheets on this side of the world. Passing over him, your eyes move to the window, where warm, almost burnt sunlight pries its way through the blinds. It should be just like it is in the movies—wake up next to him, he’ll crack open his eyes, you’ll both talk for a few minutes and sink into each other’s comforting presence, you’ll get up with some excuse (maybe it’s the morning breath, maybe your stomach throwing a temper tantrum), and he’ll keep you here, hand so
Warning: implied nsfw.
Hundreds of bodies mingle under crystal chandeliers, and the hands on your waist change with the song. Shoes click against the checkered mocha tile, only to be drowned out by aimless chatter and soft laughs. Champagne flutes fly across the ballroom like birds. Someone, you’re not sure who (nor do you really care), tries to snag your attention as the song changes, but as soon as your eyes meet gray ones across the room—the game changes. Everybody loses.
You’re over there before you know it, strutting on the titled floor with a mischievous quirk of your lips. The aimless chatter and clinking shoes diss
Warning: emotional manipulation and an unhealthy relationship.
“You can’t do this.”
The words that leave your lips are dry, drained, and pointless.
“I know—but let’s think of it as a compromise between lovers.”
Lovers? Chrollo says it with a charm and a practiced smile; twisting, the corners of his lips barely raise and his eyes almost look like they’re smiling. It’s fake, his smile, the way he moves and talks, everything. Even the way he breathes might be fake.
The room is large and shadows creep up on the sides of the walls, but the way he looks at you, how his gray eyes reach into
Warning: spoilers for Todoroki's past.
There are times in his life when he loses himself in a quiet, peaceful silence—the kind that wraps around him like a knitted blanket, prickly enough to poke against his arms but soft enough to keep him company. There are times when the rain taps against the windows, too, and it seeps into the background. He’ll be reading a book alongside the window, mindlessly listening to the drizzling rain’s splattering rhythm. Pages from the books are his friends. They whisk him away from the country that’s at war with itself, from a nonstop fighting between heroes and villains (and sometimes